


Stairs

by Verecunda



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Morse!Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Morse, he reflected, was one of those people who have that mysterious quality about them that makes other people want to look after them. Which was just as well, really, seeing as he had no idea how to do it himself.





	Stairs

**Author's Note:**

> Just a wee fluffy something I've had rattling around my head since series 5. Contains mild spoilers for 5.02 "Cartouche".

Really, Strange probably would’ve thrown in the towel before they were halfway home, if he wasn’t (strictly speaking) under orders from a superior.

“He’s had a rough night of it,” Thursday had said. “Got a couple of lungfuls of smoke. Get him home, see that he gets his head down for a bit. I’ll fill Mr. Bright in on what’s gone on here.”

Morse, of course, decided to be difficult right from the off. 

“I’ll drive,” he choked out between coughs, putting out his hand for the keys.

“No fear, matey,” said Strange, getting in the driver’s side before Morse had a chance to go anywhere near it. “Wouldn’t trust you behind the wheel on the dodgems, state you’re in.”

Morse looked extremely disgruntled at this, but was left with no choice but to get in the passenger seat. Strange started the car, and they left the smoking shell of the Roxy behind them. He tried to keep his attention on the road, but he was aware every second of Morse still smothering coughs next to him. He’d escaped the fire relatively unscathed, just a little worse for wear, but his clothes and hair were coated in a fine grey ash, he smelled like a chimney, and he looked just about ready to drop.

Didn’t stop him arguing, though.

“You’ve missed the turn onto Cowley Road.”

Strange kept his eyes dead ahead, the better to avoid one of Morse’s _looks_ as he replied, “We’re not going to the nick.”

“What? Then where are we going?”

Bracing himself for the inevitable dramatics, Strange said, “Taking you home. Night you’ve had.”

“I’m fine!” Morse protested - which would’ve been a lot more convincing if the _fine_ hadn’t dissolved into another bout of hacking and spluttering.

“If you say so,” said Strange mildly, which earned him a sidelong glare as Morse thumped ineffectually at his chest. But he pretended not to notice, and drove on. Morse groused the whole way.

“Take the next right. We can cut back to the station that way.”

“Not happening. You need your R and R.”

“I’m not ill! And I have to report on the case.”

“Old man’s got that covered. He was the one told me to take you home. If he sees you anywhere near your desk today, it’s my knackers he’ll be after.”

Morse snorted - feathers still ruffled, obviously - but this time, at least, he didn’t argue. Throwing out the guv’nor’s name had done the trick for now. He slumped back in his seat and fell silent. In fact, he didn’t say anything else for a good few minutes, and at first Strange thought he must still be in a strop. But when they stopped at the next set of lights, he darted a glance in Morse’s direction and saw that he was nodding away where he sat, his eyes heavy-lidded. Strange smiled a little, silently thanked Christ for small mercies, then put his foot down as the lights turned to green.

Unfortunately, what had been a blessing while he was driving turned out to be a job and a half when it came to actually getting Morse out of the car and into the house.

“Right. That’s us,” he announced, as he turned off the ignition. When this got no reply, he looked over to see Morse with his chin still sunk onto his chest.

“Morse,” he said, giving his shoulder a shake, “that’s us.” He got out of the car, realised Morse hadn’t followed suit, and looked round to see him still dozing away.

Starting to feel just a bit put-upon, Strange made his way round to the passenger side, opened the door, and leaned in to shake him harder. Morse woke with a start, and peered up at him through bleary, offended eyes.

“Look sharp,” said Strange. “You can have a proper kip inside.”

It seemed to take every ounce of energy Morse had left in him to heave himself out of the car, and Strange hovered at his side all the way to the front door, not quite trusting him not to just fold up and collapse in a heap first chance he got. He was definitely not quite awake, though, as they were barely in the door before Morse stumbled against the little table just beneath the coat-rack and sent everything on it flying. Swallowing his frustration, Strange deposited his coat on the banister and quickly grabbed him by the arm before he could wreak any more havoc.

“Bull in a bloody china shop, you are.”

Morse shot him a look that assured him he would’ve had something withering to say to that, if he still had the energy to form full sentences. But since that seemed to be beyond him by now, all he offered up was a vague, bad-tempered grunt. His body turned instinctively towards the living room, where the chairs presented the first attractive prospect for rest, but Strange intervened, hooking one arm around Morse’s waist and hoisting Morse’s arm around his own shoulders, before steering him towards the stairs.

“Come along, matey, up the wooden hill now...”

For a skinny streak of nothing, Morse was a dead weight as Strange hauled him upstairs. His head drooped, his feet bumped against every step, and more than once Strange had to tighten his hold around him before he went tumbling back down into the hall. It was a hard job, and Morse was no help at all, but somehow he succeeded in getting him all the way up to his room unscathed. With some manoeuvring, he at last got Morse over to his bed and sat him down, feet planted on the floor. Morse made a small complaining noise that was just about recognisable as, “Not tired…” 

Despite this, it was surprisingly easy to cajole him into shrugging out of his jacket and tie, while Strange knelt to take care of Morse’s shoes himself, untying them and chucking them in the corner. Then, through several pats to the shoulder, he at last persuaded Morse to lie down. Morse grumbled a bit, but gave in almost at once to the invitation of the mattress, curling up on his side with a sigh. Strange pulled the quilt over him and tucked the edges close in about his shoulders.

“There you go. Bit of shut-eye, and you’ll be right as ninepence.” He watched Morse for a few seconds, until he was satisfied there was no danger of him trying to get up and wander about, then said: “I’ll have to get back to the nick, but there’s still some of that shepherd’s pie left over from last night, if you’re feeling peckish later. And if you’re feeling up to it tonight, I’ll stand you a pint or two down the pub. That should clear the old airways, eh?”

Morse didn’t reply. He was out for the count. His breath had deepened to long, even gusts, and his face was slack, sharp angles all softened with sleep. It wasn’t a look Strange saw very often. He’d seen Morse asleep before, usually when he’d crashed out in his usual chair after a long shift, and usually his face was still taut, a little frown pinching his eyebrows together, as if that bloody great brain of his wouldn’t leave off, but was still ticking, ticking away in there, even while he slept. He was dead-set on carrying the weight of the world round with him, driven by some mysterious need, straining for something he only seemed to get close to when he was listening to his Wagner or his Verdi. Being a clever bugger seemed to come with an awfully high price attached, and Strange couldn’t deny it was a relief to see him look so peaceful for once.

Morse, he reflected, was one of those people who have that mysterious quality about them that makes other people want to look after them. Which was just as well, really, seeing as he had no idea how to do it himself. Strange was beginning to lose count of all the times he’d rushed headlong into a suspect wielding a knife or a gun. He still had vivid memories of Morse bleeding all over the steps of the Bodleian. And it was there in other ways, too. He seemed equally determined to get the wind up anyone who might be able to help him out in any way. He said he didn’t mean it, but Strange remained sceptical on that front.

At least he had Strange watching his back, along with the old man and the doc - whether he appreciated it or not. Bad-tempered sod, Strange thought, with that now-familiar twining of exasperation and warmth. He checked once more to make sure he really was fast asleep; then, quietly, let himself out of the room.


End file.
